


The Blessing

by Altariel



Series: The House of Mardil [20]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:33:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21852991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altariel/pseuds/Altariel
Summary: Coronation Day in the House of the Stewards.
Relationships: Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Series: The House of Mardil [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/10990
Comments: 36
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sian22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian22/gifts).



**The Blessing**

_Minas Tirith, Coronation Day_ , _May 1 st 3019 TA_

Éowyn woke in the master bedroom of the Steward’s House to the bright sun of a clear morning. Beside her lay the Steward himself, deeply sleeping, hand tucked under his head, completely at peace. How different he looked from their earliest meetings. Then, he had been pale and drawn; tired; dark shadows beneath his eyes and bruises down on side of his face. She flexed her arm. No doubt she looked very different too.

Outside, the city was stirring. She heard, faintly, tower bells. His eyes fluttered open. He saw her, and smiled. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning.” She reached over to brush at a strand of dark hair that had fallen across his face. He took her hand and kissed the palm, then stretched and turned onto his back.

“Are you ready for the day?” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Although I think it might prove to be very long.”

“Long, yes – but happy?”

“Yes, I think… Yes. Some regrets.”

She rested her head against his arm; he twisted his fingers through her hair. Yes, regrets. Too many were absent today. “Yet,” she said, “we will see history made.”

“I would gladly see less history made,” he said. “After today.”

They heard bells again, and rose. He went off to shave and, when he returned, they began slowly to prepare themselves. He brushed her long hair for her; she tied the laces at the cuffs and throat of his white shirt. He would be wearing no tokens of war other than his sword. Still, watching him put on his tunic, she was reminded of her uncle, her cousin, her brother, donning their armour.

She went to what had been his mother’s dressing room. Everything there was hers now, he had said; whatever she liked. She had found that her tastes overlapped with this long-gone woman. Simple styles, unfussy, but where there was detail, exquisitely done. She had chosen a pale blue dress for the day; it would go well with the dark blue of the starry mantle. That, and the jewellery he had given her; the pendant, the circlet… Treasure after treasure, given quietly but with obvious pleasure. This whole house, she thought; full of treasures that had been lying untouched for years. Time for the windows to open, she thought. Time for some fresh air.

She found him in his study, standing by the fireplace, frowning at something on the mantelpiece. He was wearing his cloak now, black and silver, very austere. She liked how he looked, but then she always liked how he looked. She went to see what he was looking at: three miniatures standing lined up next to each other. He turned to look at her. Despite herself, she began to laugh.

“Wait here,” she said. She went back upstairs, returning with a comb.

“Ah,” he said, seeing what she was carrying. “I knew I’d forgotten something.”

He bent his head. When she was done, she placed the comb on the mantelpiece beside the miniatures. She gently touched each one with her fingertips. He watched, and smiled, and took her arm.

“Will we do?”

“I think we will do very well.”

They left the house. As they entered the Court of the Fountain, a horn rang out in greeting, and the snow-white standard of the Stewards was raised over Gondor for the last time. He stopped to look up at it, shielding his eyes from the morning sun. “Well,” he said. “How fine it looks.”

They walked to the fountain, to the dead tree. She had, before coming here, found the idea of honouring such a thing morbid, unhealthy. Now… now she felt a little differently. The simple fact that it had stood so long – that, she thought now, was worth honouring.

Húrin, Warden of the Keys, was waiting for them. Éowyn had met many lords of Minas Tirith in the weeks she had been here, and none had proven as good a friend to her as this one. She had come to love him, not just for Faramir’s sake, but on her own account. He stepped forwards to greet them. He was carrying a long white rod. “Are you ready, sire?” he said.

“Yes,” said the Lord of Gondor. “We are ready.”

[TBC]


	2. The Blessing

**The Blessing**

_Minas Tirith, Coronation Day_ , _May 1 st 3019 TA_

They walked slowly across the court towards the tunnel that led down to the sixth level. At the entranceway, the Tower guards saluted the last Ruling Steward as he took his leave of the Citadel of Minas Tirith. When they came back this way, later, the white banner would no longer be there. As they went down into the tunnel, horns rang out in farewell. Éowyn took the chance, while they were under cover, to clasp his hand, and squeeze it.

Coming out onto the sixth level, they turned northward. They passed the stables, and the barracks of the Tower Guard, and then came out onto a white street lined with tall houses. Here were the homes of some of the most noble lines of Gondor: one house was flying the white swan of the Prince of Dol Amroth, his kinsman. She had not seen much of this part of this level: the Houses of Healing, which she knew best, lay on the south side. The stone fronts of the houses presented a stern face to the world – and yet, when she looked more closely, she saw pale intricate mosaics around the doors and windows; iron gates with fine metalwork of leaves and branches; green garlands on the doors and bright flowers in the little courts between the buildings.

They walked on until they reached the westernmost end of the circle, and she felt his hand slowly tighten around hers. This part of the day, she knew, he was dreading. They had come to Fen Hollen, the Closed Door, beyond which lay Rath Dínen, the Silent Street. Here, on the tomb of Eärnur, the last king, lay the crown of the Kings. Here too, lay the ruin caused by Denethor’s pyre.

Various people had attempted to dissuade him from coming here. Húrin, she knew, had offered to take on this duty; there had been messages too from Imrahil, which he had not answered, and even Elfhelm had asked her, tentatively, whether he might help. Éowyn had said nothing, until two evenings ago.

They were curled up comfortably in the library. He was sifting through papers; she was reading Mardil. “Rath Dínen,” she said. “Are you sure?”

He read on for a while. Then: “It is… a task for the Steward.”

Equivocation, as anticipated. “There is no precedent for this, love,” she said, gently. “No tradition. Whatever you choose will be right.”

“I know what is right.”

This stubborn streak, she thought, was surely one reason he had survived the retreat from the Causeway Forts and was, no doubt, also in part why the Stewards were about to successfully surrender their charge. “Very well,” she said, and returned to her book.

He was so startled he put down his papers. “What?” he said. “No argument? No attempt to change my mind?”

“I choose my battles carefully,” she said. “This one is plainly unwinnable. If you will accept my company on the walk, however, then I will supply it, and gladly.” And so it was. The porter bowed his head, and opened the door, and they entered the Silent Street.

What had she expected here? Something bleak; something daunting. He had told her that he often came here as a boy, and she had thought it was a strange playground for a child, unhealthy. Now she could see the draw. The stillness of the place was serene, which would have been a blessing in a world so blighted by loss and strife. And everywhere she could hear a rustling. The trees that lined the avenue bore fresh leaves, and there were birds nesting in their branches, and in the nooks and crannies of the great stone vaults. She caught a swift flash of bright fur; a fox, perhaps. Men might not come to this place, but there was life here, among the dead.

The street was orderly; a long stone path lined on either side with huge stone buildings. There could be no denying, then, that the harmony of the design was flawed by the huge space where the Stewards’ vault had once stood. She had feared that there would be ruins here, blackened stones and burned timbers, but there was nothing. The cleansing had happened; soon the renewal could begin. Someone had laboured hard to clear this place in time. Faramir turned to Húrin.

“Thank you,” he said, and the Warden nodded.

At the far end of the street, facing them, was a huge building: the vault of the Kings. Four knights in the high helms and armour of the Citadel stood waiting by the door, standing guard over a great black casket. Faramir accepted their salute, and he and Húrin entered the tomb. They soon returned, Faramir carrying the crown.

They all took a moment to look at it, brought out into daylight again for the first time in nearly a thousand years. Even Éowyn, less drawn to object and tradition than the people with whom she was coming to live, was moved by its ancientry and grandeur. A high helm like the guards were wearing, but loftier, white, and with great wings at either side of pearl and silver, like the wings of some great gull.

The Sea-kings. When she thought of the Men of Mundburg, she thought of stone, high towers, and battlements and fortifications; vaults and citadels and chambers. But they were mariners too; voyagers. Their lost home was an island; they were exiles here in Middle-earth. Faramir’s face, she saw, was shining; transfigured by awe. He had been right not to hand over this task. To hold this thing, to be the one to lift it once again – this was his privilege, that no sacrilegious act of his father’s should steal from him. Denethor had taken too much already. He had not taken this.

Gently, reverently, Faramir placed the crown in the casket. He closed the lid and laid his hands there for a while, then stood back so that the men could lift it. They left the Street. Horses had been brought for them, and now they passed down the circles of the City to the Gate. Townsfolk lined the street; laughing and cheering and singing as they passed, and as they left each level, horns rang out to mark the Steward’s passing.

They came to the place where the gate had been. A great press of townsfolk was gathered round, and when they saw the Steward a great cheer arose. He waved in greeting, and she saw him smile at last. Together, with Húrin and the four guards, they came past the barrier. Húrin passed Faramir the white rod, and they stood and waited.

At last the host came. A hush fell, as the Dúnedain came forwards, with the wizard and the Halflings. Her brother too. She caught his eye. He winked.

At the front of the company, walking slowly, came Aragorn. She had wondered, over the past weeks, how it would be, seeing him in his triumph. And now… Now she saw that Faramir had been right (of course he had been right). A great captain to a young soldier.

Faramir moved forwards. The ceremony began and, when all that was necessary was said and done, she knelt with the rest and bowed her head. She would serve this man, gladly, and she would love him too… but her heart. Her heart lay elsewhere.

_“Behold the King!”_

[TBC]


	3. Chapter 3

**The Blessing**

_Minas Tirith, Coronation Day_ , _May 1 st 3019 TA_

All the trumpets rang out. Húrin thrust back the barrier, and the King Elessar entered his city. Behind him came Mithrandir and the Steward, and then the Fellowship, and then Éowyn and her brother followed, as the most senior-ranking guests. After that came the lords of Gondor.

The whole company passed up through the city, through the flower-laden streets, to the sound of voices singing and sweet music. Up they went, steadily, until they came to the Citadel. They halted in the courtyard and stood to watch as the banner of the Tree and the Stars was unfurled over the highest tower. She saw Faramir wipe his eyes. A little less history, he had said – but only after today. Who indeed would miss this day?

The company made its way into the Hall of Kings, where the lords of Gondor were to give their oaths to Elessar. White flowers filled the space, and a sweet scent filled the air. She had been here once before, not long after the Downfall, when Faramir had been sworn in as Steward. Such a different occasion. The hall bare; four of them gathered: Faramir, Húrin, Elfhelm, herself. It had all taken mere moments.

“Is this ceremony always so brief?” she had asked him.

“I wouldn’t know,” he had replied. “This is the only one I have attended.”

Denethor (Húrin told her later), had summoned all the lords of the city and the fiefdoms to swear their allegiance to him. “I have some sympathy, mind,” Húrin said. “Difficult times. People looking to their own troubles. He meant to be sure that when the time came, they would aid Minas Tirith. And they did.”

The lords of Gondor had now taken their places. She and her brother, and the Fellowship, were a little to one side – guests, rather than participants. She was not Elessar’s subject yet. The doors to the Great Hall closed, the King rose, and therefore so did everyone did,

Elessar said, “Let us look, then, toward Númenor that was, and beyond to Elvenhome that is, and to that which is beyond Elvenhome and will ever be.”

He turned, to face the west, and they all stood, in silence. Éowyn glanced, quickly, at Faramir. His eyes were closed. She had watched him at the Standing Silence each night before dinner; observed the succour that this moment of peace and reflection brought him. She was not one for contemplation; she would, over the years, use the time for observation, she imagined.

At length, the King took his seat, and the oath-giving could begin.

The hall fell silent. Faramir walked forward, slowly, coming to a halt before the King’s seat. He offered his sword, which Elessar took, laying it across his knees. Then Faramir knelt, and placed his hand upon the hilt of the sword. He looked up at Elessar.

“Speak,” commanded the King.

In response, Faramir’s voice rang out clear and strong across the hall. “Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord – and King – of the realm—”

At some point during his speech, Éowyn found herself wiping her own eyes. Her brother put his hand upon her arm. Éomer surprised her, sometimes, with what he noticed.

“—from his hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Faramir son of Denethor, Lord of Emyn Arnen, Steward of the High King.”

When he finished, the silence in the hall was absolute. _Death take me or the world end…_ These were no mere words to anyone here today, she thought. _Ride, ride to ruin, and the world’s ending…_

The King laid his hand on top of his Steward’s. “And this do I hear, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur’s son, Elendil’s son – and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance, fealty with love.”

A murmur, quickly damped, passed around the hall at the change. Éowyn smiled. Tradition, she thought, would be whatever these two men established. The Steward, rising to his feet, received his sword back and sheathed it. Then the King stood, and opened his arms, and the two men embraced. The King murmured something to the Steward. Faramir gave a sombre smile, bowed his head, and withdrew.

Faramir returned to his place at the front of the hall. By the set of his shoulders he looked suddenly and extremely tired. Húrin, behind him, reached forwards to press his hand against his back.

“I wish you were already married,” muttered Éomer. Yes, she would be sitting beside him now, if that were the case. Éomer did indeed surprise her, sometimes.

Dol Amroth went up next, followed by his three sons, and then the lords of the City (Húrin not least). The lords of the fiefdoms came forward, one by one, to swear their oaths. Some of these were still young, fourteen or fifteen, unexpectedly thrust into this role on the deaths of their fathers in battle. Faramir had, she knew, spent time with each one of them; coached some of them in saying these lines. She watched him watch them – anxiously, paternally, and at last proudly as they spoke well. As each came back past him, he spoke to them; quiet words of praise. These boys, she guessed, would do anything for him.

At length, each lord had offered his sword and his oath. The day was wearing on. Soft music began to play. The King withdrew, and the lords began to file out. “I’ll wait,” she said to her brother.

At last the hall was empty. Only Faramir remained, sitting in his chair, head back. At her step, he looked up, and smiled.

“Well,” she said. “How are you?”

He stood, and drew her close. “Hungry,” he replied.

[TBC]


	4. Chapter 4

**The Blessing**

_Minas Tirith, Coronation Day_ , _May 1 st 3019 TA_

They joined the company in Merethrond, the Great Hall of Feasts, and took their places at the high table. Sitting next to each other, at last, they held hands as much as they could. She did not know (although many others told her later), how she shone that evening. Young, and strong, and beautiful; in love and deeply loved; coming into her powers. Later, when the dancing began, she, as the most senior ranking visiting noblewoman, was the first to take to the floor with the King.

“You leave us soon, I hear?” he said.

“Another week.”

“Hardly any time before you go.” His eye fell on his Steward, leading his cousin onto the floor. “I won’t let him keep himself busy on my account.”

“I would be very grateful to see something of him over the next few days.”

He smiled. She could still see why she had imagined herself in love with him. But she understood fully now the nature of that love. She saw it in Faramir’s eyes, when he looked at him. Elessar drew people to him: the hurt, the weary, the sorrowful. They saw his bright beacon and flew to the warmth of his flame. He brought you under his protection. He called you back from the brink. But after you came back from the darkness, someone else had to walk with you into the light.

“While you are at Edoras,” he said, quietly, “a party of people… known to me will be coming that way. Will you… Would you…”

He seemed uneasy; apprehensive. “Sir?”

“Would you make her welcome?”

 _Ah_ , she thought. A little impatience rose up in her. What did he think she would do? She raised her eyebrow at him; he bit his lip. These men! They knew so little of women! What was he expecting? That there would be a feud? Whoever this woman was – some scion of a Northern family, she guessed – she would be as new to Minas Tirith as she was. She would need companionship, allies… “She has a friend in me. Of course she has a friend in me!”

He nodded, evidently relieved. Faramir passed them, spinning Lothíriel around the room in ever more ambitious circles, and laughing.

“The change in him…” Aragorn murmured. “Lady, I was wrong to tell you to remain at Dunharrow. I am sorry.”

The dance was ending. She bowed her head in acceptance. “Sire,” she said. “We are yours. Use us wisely.”

He placed his hands around hers. Grey eyes looked steadily at her. Yes, she thought; there would be joy in serving this man. Joy, and no regrets. “Éowyn, I swear.”

They walked together back to where the Steward and his cousin were waiting. Bowing again to her, he took Lothíriel’s arm, and led her to the floor.

Faramir eyed her thoughtfully. “That took a serious turn, I think?”

“He had good news to convey,” she said.

“Ah yes. He wanted to speak to you himself. I think that he… Well.”

Sharply, she said, “I will not murder her in her bed, if that is what everyone fears.”

“I have no fears in that respect.”

“No?”

“Éowyn, you would not be so underhand.”

She laughed. “Who is she?”

“Therein lies a tale…” He glanced at the people hovering around, anxious to commend themselves to the Steward. “Not for here,” he murmured. “Later.”

“Later,” she agreed. “First you must dance with every single one of these women. Defend your choice of bride.”

He took her hand; kissed her palm. “At some point over the next few hours,” he said, “I shall start to flag. You might consider coming to save me. Again.”

They were swept away, in opposite directions. She danced with the lords of Gondor: the older ones she handled with courtesy and firmness; the younger ones – those boys – with gentleness, coaxing them to the floor and leaving them with stars in their eyes. She set out to make friends of their wives. She looked on in delight as Éomer fell ever deeper in love. She watched as Gondor – joyfully, gratefully, incredulously – celebrated its survival, its victory, and the years of renewal to come.

And at last, she thought, _I am tired now_ , and went in search of her love.

[TBC]


	5. Chapter 5

**The Blessing**

_Minas Tirith, Coronation Day_ , _May 1 st 3019 TA_

She found Faramir sitting peacefully by the fountain in the courtyard, the Ringbearer beside him. He waved to her to join them. “We wearied of the music and dancing and speech,” he said. “You find us enjoying some peace.”

That was surely not the whole of it. Frodo, small within his grey cloak, looked drawn and tired. Éowyn sat on the wall beside him and he smiled up at her. “My lady,” he said. “How fair you are tonight. How happy you look. I am glad.”

She folded his hands within hers and rubbed them gently to warm them. “I _am_ happy,” she confessed.

“Good,” said Faramir, quietly.

She looked around the courtyard, and felt a pang of loss at the thought of her imminent departure. “I shall miss being here.”

“When do you go back to the Mark?” asked Frodo.

She sighed. “Seven more days.”

They looked regretfully at each other. Neither was happy at the thought of this parting, but she must return to Edoras for a little while to tie up the threads of her old life there, before embarking on the new.

“And when do you return here?”

“I shall travel with the King to Rohan in the summer to bring home the fallen,” said Faramir.

“And I shall return with Faramir at the end of autumn,” she said. “We wed at _mettarë_.”

Frodo’s eyes lit up with soft pleasure at this image. “Good,” he said, softly. “Good news.”

And Éowyn knew for sure that, wherever Frodo’s road led now, he would not be there to see them marry. Tears prickled her eyes, and she blinked them away.

They sat together quietly, the three of them; the Steward of Gondor and Lady Wraithbane on either side of the Ringbearer, like sentinels. Éowyn stroked Frodo’s hand within her own; Faramir’s rested gently upon the Halfling’s knee. The full moon shone down and the fountain rose and fell behind them. They listened to the sounds of merrymaking coming out of the Hall and up from the circles of the city below, and were at peace. At length, they heard the patter of running feet coming across the courtyard. Sam appeared, a worried look on his face.

“Mister Frodo!” he scolded. “There you are!”

Frodo opened his eyes and smiled. “I didn’t go too far, Sam!”

“No, but – begging your pardon, Captain Faramir, and…” His eyes shone at Éowyn. “And you, fairest lady – but it’s getting late and Mister Frodo should be resting—”

“Indeed he should,” said Faramir. They rose, and Faramir, placing his hands upon Frodo’s shoulders, bent and kissed him on the brow. “Goodnight, Frodo,” he said. “May Estë bless your sleep tonight.”

Éowyn, reaching up to her mantle, undid the brooch pinned there: a white swan set with diamonds. Finduilas of Dol Amroth had worn this once upon a time, and it had come from her son to Éowyn. She pressed the brooch into the Ringbearer’s hand. “Remember us, Frodo,” she said.

“Oh lady,” said the Ringbearer. “By your hand a great evil was ended. I shall never forget you – nor the Rangers of Ithilien, friends unlooked for, unhoped for, friends in great need.”

Sam took his master’s arm, and the Halflings left. Faramir, watching them, said, “I am unsure still how that story will end.”

They moved closer together. The door to the hall opened, and some people came out, laughing and singing. “Ought we to go back?” she said. “Join the company?”

“We ought,” he said. “But the night is fair, and we are alone together, and one day closer to your departure, and I have performed a great number of duties already today.”

She softened against him. “Estë,” she said. “Who is that? One of your Valar, I guess?”

“Indeed. Through her power, the hurts and the weariness of the world are healed.”

“I like the sound of her.”

“Oh yes?” He took her hand, and pulled her away from the doors. “Then come with me.”

They crossed across the court to the archway that led down to the sixth level. The guards there began to salute him. Faramir placed a finger against his lips. “Hush,” he said. “You have not seen us.” One, to his credit, did not even blink; the other could not quite suppress a smile.

They walked on, keeping to the shadows. Most of those who had houses here were at Merethrond tonight, but some, perhaps, might be thinking of their beds. They took the southward-leading path. Éowyn knew this route well: from the Steward’s House to the Houses of Healing. But when they reached the gate to the garden, it was locked. “Hmm,” said the Steward. “I hardly want to wake anyone…”

“A wall is no real barrier,” Éowyn said.

“Not to me, but I have the edge when it comes to height.” He peered at her. “And I am not the one wearing a dress.”

She hitched up her skirts and fastened them to her belt. “Carry on,” she said. He knelt down, clasped his hands together, and lifted her up. She scrambled to the top, and watched as he stretched up, grabbed the top of the wall, and hoisted himself up afterwards. Gods, she thought, but he was strong. They sat side by side on the wall, looking over the garden.

“Good work,” he said. “Perhaps we'll make a Ranger of you yet.”

The sheer impudence of it. She jumped down, lightly. “Perhaps we'll make a Rider of you yet.”

They walked on, arms around each other. This place, she thought, breathing in the night-scented herbs, watching the breeze bless the leaves on the trees; this was where her heart would ever be.

“Where today?” she said, and he smiled. She had said this to him every morning here; mocking, at first, the narrowness of their prison, later, because each day he found some new spot to offer up to her, to distract her, to remind her that there was still a world beyond her grief.

“This way.”

He led her down the long path that cut through the lawn. They came to a high green hedge with an iron gate. He tested the handle, and the gate sprang open. “Good,” he said, then turned to her. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Close your eyes!”

She tutted, but obeyed. He took her hand, and led her past the gate.

“Now you may open them,” he said.

She did, and gasped in sheer delight. All around her, the garden was shimmering. White flowers, blooming, catching the moonlight. At the far end, in a small grove formed of trees, stood a pale statue of a woman. Her hands held open, in welcome, in blessing.

“We never came here!”

“I was saving this one for a full moon. A few more days would have done it.”

She walked slowly towards the woman. “Estë?”

“Estë.”

Éowyn came to stand before her. _Through her, the hurts and the weariness of the world are healed_ , she thought; and, _I will be a healer, and love all things that grow are not barren…_ and, _No longer do I desire to be a queen…_

Faramir, humming quietly to himself, was picking white flowers. Reaching up, he tucked them into the circlet round her hair. “There,” he said, in satisfaction. “Lovelier than ever.”

She thought: How was this possible? This life, this man, this happiness? “And are your hurts and your weariness healed now, love?”

“Yes,” he said. “I believe so.” And he took her in his arms and kissed her, under the moon and the stars.

_All things will grow with joy, if the White Lady comes_.

* * *

For Sian22: Happy Faramir!

_Altariel, 18 th-20th December 2019_


End file.
